


the days of miracles will come along

by janie_tangerine



Series: springsteen-related tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Springsteen References, F/M, Fix-It, Jaime Lannister Lives, Marriage, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, Weddings, canon I don't know her :D, gwendoline christie's magical emmy gown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 23:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21005627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: She nods at him, and she turns so that he can put the cloak on her, the hands and arms slipping inside the sleeves easily. She turns so that he can close the clasp with just his left hand, and then he takes a step back, and -Gods.The blood red cloak and the gold look perfect on her, like she was made to wear them, but at the same time it’s a long cry from the gowns Cersei favored, so different one couldn’t mistake them for one another if they tried, and his hands are shaking again as holds up his left.“Wait,” he says. “I think something’s missing.”“What?” She replies, her voice barely audible. He moves his cloak, revealing Oathkeeper resting on his hip.





	the days of miracles will come along

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, earlier this month I took some Springsteen-related prompts on tumblr and since I posted one for jbweek I figured I'd drop all the others in a series - it's three jb and one for another ship. ;) This was for an anon who wanted jb + [this is your sword](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/brucespringsteen/thisisyoursword.html) [[video here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cq3s4FzMhFg)] (which i fear I ficced ten times for this ship by now but WHO CARES U__U) and _could you write ‘this is your sword’ with j/b in canon? with a brienne becoming lady lannister? thank youuuu_. and since it was just after the emmys, we took the liberty of going with the emmy gown. have fun and enjoy the absolute tooth-rottinf fluff. ;)
> 
> ofc nothing belongs to me and the title/inspiration is from springsteen.

He wishes he wasn’t fidgeting.

He _wishes_ he wasn't. But he _is_, and he hates it, he hates the way his left hand is clenching around his sword’s pommel

(_he should really change the name, Widow’s Wail doesn’t fit it, not at all, if it ever did_)

as he stands in the melting snow, in Winterfell’s courtyard, and he can’t believe -

“Lannister, are you going to faint?” Lord Davos asks from his side. Thankfully he keeps his voice low.

“Hopefully not,” he says, even if he _feels_ like he will.

The sun is shining over his head - it’s not warm yet, not spring, but the weather’s thawing into it. He glances at Sansa Stark standing on the other side of the path leading to the heart tree, feeling the weight of the pin resting over his heart, wondering how the _hell_ he ended up appointed Hand of the King after Daenerys Targaryen decided to go back to Essos and relinquished her claim after King’s Landing burned and Cersei -

He _did_ want to go back for a fleeting moment. When he heard, he - he _did_, even if thinking about it felt like staring into an abyss, but a familiar one. One that he had stared into all his life, and he had _almost_ gone, _almost_, had gathered up his things as his stomach ate on itself, a voice that sounded like Cersei’s in his head saying that _they were born together and they should have died together, he didn’t deserve the warmth of Brienne’s bed, he didn’t, he didn’t_ -

“Seven hells,” Tyrion tells him, dragging him out of _that_ chain of thoughts, “you look like you _are_ about to faint. And she’s about to come out, so maybe you should worry about _this_ instead.”

He doesn’t wait for Jaime to answer and thrusts a folded cloak inside his arms - Jaime catches it with his left and his stump, he’s not wearing the golden hand, he hasn’t for _months_ by now, and he realizes it’s way heavier than he had expected. He glances down at it, but it’s folded and only notices that there are sapphires woven inside the cloth.

“Tyrion, _what_ -”

“As heir to Casterly Rock,” Tyrion grins, “since _she_ is about to become Lady Lannister, I spoke with her and decided to… spend some of Father’s precious gold wisely. Also, the clasp should give you less trouble than a normal one,” he finishes, cryptically, and says nothing more.

Jaime holds the cloak to his chest and looks back at the path - there aren’t many guests but there are the ones who matter, and after King’s Landing was destroyed _this_ is the temporary capital, so they’re marrying here, of course they are -

_Stay_, she had told him, reaching out for his hands both real and fake, grabbing them so gently, and he had looked up at her and she was holding on to them so tightly and suddenly he knew he didn’t _want_ to, and that voice wasn’t so insistent any more, and so he had stayed and he asked her the next day, _will you marry me_, and she hadn’t said yes for a fortnight but then she _had_, and -

Suddenly, the entire crowd goes silent as he hears footsteps coming from the curve of the path, and a moment later Brienne is walking up towards him with Jon Snow at her side giving her out because her father couldn’t make the journey here and it seemed appropriate that the King in person would give her to his Hand when she had been so invaluable during the Long Night, and Jaime -

Jaime feels breathless.

Her hair had grown longer in the last months, as she stopped cutting it, but she usually ties it back with a string. Now it’s loose on her shoulders, expertly styled, not at all braided but still not looking unkempt, and it looks almost blinding under the pale sunlight that bounces against the gold of her earrings - they have a sun and a moon, like Tarth’s sigil, and she’s coming uncloaked, with a long, flowing white dress of soft silk that doesn’t tie at the waist, with those sapphires woven into the sleeves in a flower-y shape similar to the ones he saw on the cloak he’s holding in his hands.

He thinks his lips fall open for a moment as she walks up to him - someone painted her lips redder than usual, and she’s looking down at him with those large, pretty blue eyes of hers, and she’s smiling tentatively and he thinks he’s breathless as he grins back and he whispers that she looks stunning.

She doesn’t contradict him, even if her cheeks go slightly redder.

For a moment they look at each other, then he realizes that there’s no septon in the North, and when Ser Davos asks who gives the bride and if he accepts her, he says readily that he will take this woman 

(and _how he wants to_, oh _how much_)

and when she’s asked if she’ll take this man she doesn’t wait before saying that she _will_, as if there could be no other choice, and Jaime’s hands are shaking as he lets the cloak fall to the ground gently.

Oh.

It’s not - the usual. It’s a kind of that has sleeves and that only has to be tied in the front with an easy enough clasp to work with, and then Jaime realizes that the shoulders are tied with golden lions with a sapphire in each’s mouth and that the front clasp also in the shape of a golden lion.

Gods, Tyrion wasn’t lying when he said he _did_ spend gold on it.

She nods at him, and she turns so that he can put the cloak on her, the hands and arms slipping inside the sleeves easily. She turns so that he can close the clasp with just his left hand, and then he takes a step back, and -

_Gods._

The blood red cloak and the gold look _perfect_ on her, like she was _made_ to wear them, but at the same time it’s a long cry from the gowns Cersei favored, so different one couldn’t mistake them for one another if they tried, and his hands are shaking again as holds up his left.

“Wait,” he says. “I think something’s missing.”

“What?” She replies, her voice barely audible. He moves his cloak, revealing Oathkeeper resting on his hip.

“This is your sword,” he says. “It will always be. And I thought… you should wear it,” he says, and her eyes are brimming with unshed _happy_ tears as she takes it from him, holding it in her left hand, her right reaching for his left, threading their fingers together -

“I am hers and she is mine,” he says, loud enough for anyone to hear, barely believing he gets to do _that_ when he thought he never would -, “From this day until my last day.”

“I am his,” she says in a breath, sounding like _she_ can barely believe it herself, “and he is mine, from this day until my last day.”

People are cheering as he stands on his toes to reach for her face and kisses her, and not chastely, and he feels it when her arms encircle his back while she doesn’t let the sword fall, and for a moment it feels like if that is her sword _she_ might be his shield at the end of all things, and gods if the prospect doesn’t stir something warm in his gut -

“Good thing there’s no septon,” Lord Davos says, and at _that_ he realizes that maybe they should get over to the feast already and they’re making a scene -

But Brienne’s not moving and he wants to kiss her some more and the more he feels the red silk of her cloak under his left hand the more he feels warmth rising up in his stomach, _I am hers and she is mine_, and she’s wearing his colors and the sword _he_ gave her -

He smiles into the kiss.

He thinks they can keep on doing it for a little while longer, and the feast can wait, too, and from the way she’s kissing him back, he thinks Brienne is in full agreement with his plans.

End.


End file.
